HE CAME… BECAUSE HE LOVED
Peter moved to the village of Hillfield from the neighboring county. At first, he stayed in a small, run-down cottage left to him by a distant relative—just a temporary arrangement while he built his own home. One evening, as he hammered the final boards onto the veranda, he spotted her—a slender, elegant woman with a city air about her, walking from the bus stop. Lydia. That was his neighbor’s name.
“Beautiful… and such poise,” he thought. “A proper woman.”
A few days later, he ran into her outside the village shop. He didn’t bother with small talk.
“You’re Lydia, right? I asked the neighbors. I’m Peter. Fancy getting acquainted?”
She flushed but glowed inside—a man like him noticing *her*! Peter didn’t let up, and soon they were courting. A year later, he slid a little box across the table, a ring inside…
…Years passed. Lydia was now fifty-eight, Peter three years younger. They lived together in their cozy home with its freshly built veranda. Their son, grown and married, had long since moved to another part of the country. Their granddaughter, five-year-old Emily, was the light of their lives.
That evening, Lydia waited for Peter to return from work. He’d been out in the fields—spring planting was nearly done. She’d made a pot of stew, set the table, then paused by the window, lost in thought.
“He’s later than usual… Said they’d finish today.”
As she gazed outside, memories washed over her. Her childhood had been hard. Born into a large family—six children, her the eldest—they’d crowded into a tiny cottage with their parents and their father’s mother. Her parents worked dawn till dusk, leaving Lydia and Gran to manage the household.
When she told little Emily about those days, her granddaughter frowned.
“Gran, what did you *play* with if you had no toys?”
“Whatever we could find, love… pebbles, sticks, rags…”
She didn’t say more—some things were too heavy for a child to understand.
Lydia’s father had been a carpenter—skilled, always in demand. He earned decent wages, but a bottle had to be on the table by evening. He’d come home merry, her mother grumbling, but he’d never been unkind—if anything, too soft with them.
They’d never had a Christmas tree. The first decorated one Lydia ever saw was at school, and it had felt like real magic.
Then her father died. She was just nine. Two months later, Gran was gone too. Her mother, alone with six children. Neighbors helped with the funerals, but after that, survival was a daily struggle.
“Mum… how will we manage?” Lydia had whispered.
“I don’t know, pet. But we will. What choice have we?”
Childhood ended. Lydia became a second mother—cooking, cleaning, tending the little ones. Dreams of friends and games faded. Summers were easier, just the garden and chores, backbreaking but familiar.
At ten, she fell from the hayloft, reaching for fodder. Her arm was badly hurt. Doctors saved its use, but her fingers never worked right again. School was hard, but she pushed through.
After eighth grade, she was sent to technical college. There, for the first time, she felt happy. Friends, respect, praise for her diligence—especially in sewing.
“Lydia, well done! Look how neat her stitches are!”
She even traveled abroad with the top students. On holidays, she returned with gifts—clothes she’d sewn for her siblings. Rarely anything for herself.
In her second year, she fell for Paul. Kind, cheerful, attentive. They courted; she dreamed of marriage. But her mother was blunt.
“Who’d want you, with that arm? Loneliness is your lot.”
The words cut deep. Slowly, she and Paul drifted apart. After college, she found work, but layoffs sent her back to the village.
Then *he* appeared—Peter. Tall, handsome, hardworking. Built his home, settled nearby. And noticed Lydia…
It all began again—for real this time. He didn’t care about their age gap. Her scars, her stiff fingers—none of it mattered. He just loved her.
Their son grew up kind and clever. Now little Emily brought them joy.
That evening, as the stew cooled, she saw him through the window. Peter walked up, weary but smiling.
“All done, love! Planting’s finished. Just need a bit of a sit-down,” he said, stepping inside.
She straightened his collar, hugged him. And he looked at her, just as he had years ago. With love.
Some wounds never fully heal—but love doesn’t ask for perfection. It comes quietly, stays fiercely, and chooses you, flaws and all.
